We Can Go On
by goldrushraz
Summary: Based on the teaser trailer. John is reunited with Sherlock ! Mary too... Rated T for singular mention of trackmarks/scars


**Authors Note- Hey, so this is my first fic which I actually wrote to submit to Ughbenedict and Wolfflock on tumblr. Had to rate it T for a singular mention of track marks and scars, interpret them however you want, I didn't go in to detail. x**

**Disclaimer: as you _may have guessed_, I do not own Sherlock or am affiliated with it in any way! Enjoy! x**

* * *

John.

My John.

Pain in upper left hand side of chest. Ignore it. He hasn't seen me yet. Good. Sitting against the wall of the restaurant. Crowded. Comes to mind that a crowded restraint may not be the place…?

Too late now.

Far too late, actually.

His sandy blonde hair. Pale blue eyes. Skin that is lighter than before I left him. His moustache, his attempt at trying to appear neat and in control. Trying.

Lighting is dim, romantic. Couples everywhere. Think of Angelo's. Have not permitted myself to think of it in some time. Hurts.

He is looking at the wine list. Tear eyes away and see woman seated opposite him. Recall first deductions of her. Dark brown hair, late thirties, possible forensic scientist, childless, some wrinkles (smile lines), engaged.

Engaged.

Remember unexplained lump in throat. Stupid, stupid.

She is fiddling with a thin gold chain around her neck. On it hangs a discreet gold band, newly resized, but an antique. Heirloom?

Realize I am still standing in the entrance of the restaurant. Must do it. Not fair. On John.

On me.

Begin to walk towards the table. Legs feeling weak. Irrational. Waiter approaches with wine tray. Doesn't anticipate my abrupt decision to move, knocks wine on us both. Apologises profusely.

Don't notice the crimson stain adorning my (carefully chosen) snow white shirt. John is looking at me.

First, my legs. Brow furrows.

Waist. Sadness. It's not him, it isn't.

Shoulders. Ancient hope. Maybe. But it won't be.

Want to smooth his brow and erase the sadness and tell him I've come home.

His eyes turn to my face. What is my expression? I do not know. John is sad, and utterly composed, and tired.

He has seen many tall, dark haired men in suits since I left.

His eyes open wider. His jaw slackens. Hands clench slowly, tightly. Slowly, slowly, he sees. Does not want to believe.

Wants to believe so much.

I begin to move towards him.

His body tightens.

All around, the couples have gone back to their conversations. The waiter has gone to clean up.

John's lips have become a thin line, his face unreadable. Mary is looking concernedly at him, glancing around to find the trigger to this reaction.

Slowly, walk towards the table. Does he think I am not real? I am real. John, I'm real.

Mary has seen me. Her eyes widen, she slowly sits a little straighter. She knows.

Stop a few feet in front of him. Safe distance?

It has been too long since I have seen him this close. He looks of someone who has gone through an experience, and managed to come out the other side.

Some don't. Like Father.

Some come out broken. Like Mother.

Some come out better. Like Mycroft.

And some come out alive.

Like John.

He is clean shaven, light shadows under his eyes (night terrors), cane resting against the back of his chair. Smartly dressed (by Mary, no doubt. No sweater tonight.), a slightly military feel emanating from his stance. Reverting to old habits.

"John."

His mouth turns down slightly at the edges. His face remains composed. His tucks his chin in. He looks down.

Mary stands up, quietly. Glance at her. She looks quite shocked. Understandable. Not afraid. Knows who I am, but does not think I am a ghost. Or fake. Mary is rational.

Moves past me gently. Touches my arm. Permission. Warning. Be careful.

I take her place in the chair opposite John. He remains looking at the ground.

"John."

His eyes flicker shut.

"John, I-"

He holds up one finger. Eyes still closed.

Shame, guilt, self-hatred. The more I look at him, the more I realise how right I was to feel these emotions so frequently afterwards. w

He runs his hands over his face. Turns toward me. Opens eyes.

He may as well be screaming in pain. Has nothing to say. Wants to say everything.

Throat feels thick.

"John, I am sorry."

His eyes bear into mine. Wants answers, none will be good enough. Has questions, can I answer?

"This was never meant to happen, I am –"

"I can't."

He picks up his cane and jacket, and rises from the chair.

"John- "

Reach for him.

"Please."

Does not look at me. Whispers. "Sherlock."

Hand is halfway towards him. Watch him go.

Limp has gotten better since Mary. Thank You.

But this is not how it was meant to happen.

Restaurant door closes behind him. Mary will be outside. She will tell him to not make any rash judgements. Too late, Mary.

Follow him out of the restaurant. See him looking around for Mary.

"John, please, I need to –"

Swings around. I see his face. Tears. John was always the one who dealt with tears, cleaned up after I had done my work. His face is crumpled. Have I left it too late? Is it too early? There was never going to be a right time.

Keep voice steady. "I made a mistake."

Jaw is clenched. Wet face. Droplets on his scarf. (My old scarf?)

"I should never have gone. I should never –"

"DAMN RIGHT YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE."

Fist coming towards my face. Do not underestimate the "army" part of "Army Doctor."

Rather a lot of bright little lights going off in the back of my skull. No time to wait for the phosphene to pass. Mary appears, rushing towards John, obviously attempting to calm him down before he strikes me with another well-deserved blow.

Grab his fist before it makes contact a second time, pull him into me. Embrace him like I should have 3 years ago.

In my hand, the fist weakens almost immediately. His other arm hangs limply at his side. I am not ready to let go. I let go.

"Sherlock."

I am held in place by John, who is not ready to let go either. His arms have wound around me, and he is repeating my name into my chest. Smell the same aftershave on him that I used to wear. John told me he liked it once. So I kept wearing it.

I feel his body shaking gently. He feels vulnerable in my arms. Instinct is to protect him. I have been, John. Even when you thought I was gone, I watched over you. You will always have my protection.

I hold him tighter. Mary stands, watching from a distance, unsure of her place. Slight nod of my head. She has taken good care of John, when I failed absolutely to do so. She has held him when he awoke in the early hours of the morning, yelling my name and crying. She has left John alone at my grave to have privacy while he speaks all the words he never said to me while I was alive. She has willed him to get up in the morning on days when he simply could not. She has done all this, and much more, and not asked for anything in return, when all I could do was watch helplessly from a distance. I owe her an immeasurable debt.

She approaches us, as John continues to whisper my name into my chest, holding me as if I were going to disappear. She places an outstretched arm around John's waist, and places her other hand on my shoulder. Do not mind this contact. Need it.

John, without relinquishing his hold on me, winds an arm around Mary's waist, pulling her closer to him. She rests her head on his shoulder. Under my shirt, track marks and scars burn with the intensity of Johns grip. It was not easy, at the start. Or the middle, or the end. But especially the start.

Feels as though Johns grip is bandaging all the wounds. Tonight I will explain. Difficult and painful, for everyone. But they have waited, and I have waited. They will know the truth.

And then, we can go on.


End file.
